If it wasn't for the minute glimmer of reflected sunlight, that penetrated the lowering sky, she might have missed it entirely.

She hesitated; then took a couple of steps backwards. The dirty window glided slowly back into view.

For a moment, she couldn't understand what had caught her attention through the gritty, sea-salt encrusted glass. Then, her gaze was caught by a second dull glint, and she saw it.

The creased, handwritten sign proclaimed the camera to be a Kodak Pony 135; from the early nineteen-fifties. She didn't care. All she knew was that the camera was almost the same as one that had belonged to her father.

God, but it was so hard to believe that he was gone; taken by an uncaring disease that had ravaged both body and soul. It still hurt to think of him, as he lay in that sterile hospital bed, waiting for the pain to go away.

No: she wouldn't do that. Instead, she would remember him as he was; filled to overflowing with a joy for life, and living. Think of a time when it was just the two of them – she had never known her mother, who had deserted them both not long after she had brought her daughter into the world.

So, it had just been the two of them, for as long as she could remember. Daddy and his sweet little princess; he had called her that. Right up to the day he had finally gone to sleep forever.

Images - of a succession of birthday parties and picnics. Daddy with his camera, that had always seemed to be such an integral part of him. The intermittent magnesium flash of the bulb – another frozen tableaux caught on celluloid. Windows that looked inwards -to happier times. Daddy had always made sure that she had the best he could offer, despite having to work long hours to support them both.

She took a step back from the window. Looked towards the door. The sign said - CLOSED - in faded blocky letters of an indeterminate color.

She almost didn't bother; there was something inherently uninviting about the weather-beaten shop-front, that seemed to discourage visitors. But, she told herself, she might get back this way again for a while, and the camera might not be there next time. She reached for the door.

Tentative fingers met unevenly rippled, cracked paint, and pressed. There was a momentary resistance, and she thought that the door was indeed locked. Then, the swollen wood gave slightly. She pressed harder.

A dry retching of wood accompanied the reluctant widening of the door.

'Hello?' She stepped across the threshold. 'Anybody around?'

If the world outside the confines of the shop was gloomy dusk, then the interior was cloudy night. Less than a meter from her feet, haphazard collections of assorted motley objects grew away into the dim recesses of the shop.

She took another tentative step; hesitated. She half-turned, as if to leave, but a soft voice from somewhere deep in the rear of the shop froze her in her tracks.

'May I help you with something?'

A shadow detached itself from the gloomy recesses and glided towards her. As the figure moved into the dim illumination cast through the grimy glass, she saw that it was a woman. About the same height as she was; willowy, with a mane of coppery hair that flowed freely across her shoulders and down her back to her waist. Eyes of the palest jade regarded her curiously, from under arched eyebrows. Her age was difficult to judge; she might have been anywhere from her mid-twenties to early forties.

'Oh. Hi.' Momentarily flustered. 'I was just..,' She laughed self-consciously. 'I'll start again. You have a camera. In the window?'

'The Pony?' She nodded. 'Yes, that was my grandmothers camera. I'll get it for you.'

She returned moments later. The worn cushion holding the camera was in her hands.

'It's a beauty, isn't ?'

'Yes.' Unable to prevent a wistful smile. 'My dad had one just like it. That's why it caught my eye.'

'Ah.' The young woman smiled conspiratorially. 'So; capturing the memories?'

'I'm sorry?' she raised a querying eyebrow. The woman said nothing. She held out the camera and, after a moment, she took the proffered Kodak.

Up close, the camera was nothing special. The Bakelite case was chipped across a corner, and cracked in several places. The film reminder dial was cloudy; the digits hardly visible. Corners of the faux-leather covering were peeling back, exposing the material beneath.

'Um; how much do you want for it?' She couldn't recall seeing a price tag when it had been in the window, and, if she was honest with herself, had no idea of the worth of the thing. It didn't look expensive, but then, what did she know?

'Well,' The young woman began. She glanced down at the camera, then back again. 'It is a family heirloom, as I've said.' She smiled slowly. 'But, I suppose; I did put it up for sale, so..,'

She waited, hesitant and unexpectedly anticipatory, as the young woman considered; her pale gaze fixed on a point somewhere between them.

'How about,' She refocused her attention. 'Fifteen pounds.' Her smile reappeared, larger. 'As it's for the memory of your father.'

'Are you sure?' She was surprised; it was less than she was expecting. A lot less.

'Yes, I think so.' The young woman took the camera, and turned towards a dimly seen desk off to one side. 'I'll just find something to put it in for you.'

* * * * *

Back in her apartment, she opened the small box, and lifted the battered camera into the light. It looked even more decrepit than she had thought. She turned it slowly in her hands, wondering whether it was worth having the thing cleaned up and restored, or was she just better placing it on display somewhere. She noticed that the barely visible digits under the film reminder dial were set on fourteen. Fourteen shots used; or fourteen remaining – she didn't know which.

Suddenly curious, she fumbled at the casing, nimble fingers flicking across the worn surface. She found the casing release by accident, and the cover clicked ajar. Just in time, she remembered that film such as this, was sensitive to light, and hurried the camera into her small dimly lit bedroom.

There was a cartridge inside the camera. She looked around for something light-proof to secrete the film in. Seeing her small jewelery box, she dumped its meager contents onto her bed covers, and placed the cartridge carefully inside.

Her curiosity piqued now, and excited more than she thought she ought to be, she wondered what was on the film. Images of the past maybe- but how far back? A few years? Ten? Twenty?

Not wanting to wait; she tucked the jewelery box under her arm, and hurried out of the apartment.

The new day began; full of promise.

Beyond the shimmering expanse of Windermere, the mountains of the Lake district rose above the town; carrying their forests and bracken proudly upon their backs.

It was going to be another scorcher, Rob Dinster thought to himself, as he paused at the lakeside, on his way back from picking up a morning paper. Damn; but it was a good day to be alive. Rob was a city boy, and proud of it, but there was a lot to be said for living in the country.

Born and raised in the busy suburbs of Manchester; if any of his mates had told him he would leave, and end up working on a farm, he have laughed in their faces. But, that's what happened when you married a farmer's daughter. Rob laughed aloud; oblivious of the curious looks from the one or two early tourists out taking the pre-heat air.

It was the second day of their honeymoon; two wonderful weeks in Bowness; paid for by Abbey's dad. Another twelve blissful days of trips around the area - of boat excursions on the lakes themselves. Twelve days to spend together, and nights spent.., he smiled at the thought.

Then, as if the thought was the spur, he turned, and hurried back towards the hotel.

* * * * *

Mick Andsell scowled into his pint. His hands, weather-beaten and well muscled, like the rest of him, turned the glass restlessly.

'It's not bloody fair - it ain't.'

'Nah, mate.' Next to him, his pal Gnasher lowered his lips to his own glass. Short and hirsute, with bristly whiskers that splayed away from his face in disarray, Gnasher was a bulldog to Andsell's Rottweiler. 'They shouldn't 'ave gotten rid o' ya; not just like that.'

'That bastard; Inders. I'll bet it was 'im.' He spat the words, fueling them with anger and hate. 'E couldn't not prove that it was me, what took those tools.' He lifted the glass, and drained half the contents in a single pull.

'We was careful.' Gnasher agreed. 'Wasn't no one saw us.' He looked up at his large friends glass. 'You want another o' those?'

'Just like 'im, ta get the law involved. Well, he's gonna be sorry.' Andsell ignored his friend. Draining the rest of his pint, he slammed the glass down upon the bar with enough force to shatter the glass.

The bar, almost empty at that time of day, quietened suddenly. As one, the heads of several die-hard drinkers swiveled in their direction. Andsell looked around scowling; daring anybody to say anything. Nobody took him up on his offer, and, after a moment, he turned, and headed towards the door.

'Hey,' Gnasher called after his friends retreating back. 'Mick? Where you going?'

Andsell didn't answer. He strode towards the door, sudden purpose giving him impetus.

'Mick? Want I should come with?'

Andsell finally seemed to hear. He stopped; turning slowly back towards the bar. The barman froze in the act of clearing up the broken glass, and even Gnasher paused at the look on Andsell's face.

'Gonna do what I shoulda done in't first place. Just leave me be.'

And he was gone, the door swinging softly behind him.

* * * * *

'How about a picnic?' Abbey suggested. Rob shrugged.

'Anything you want, sweetheart.' He smiled. 'I'm easy.'

'Yes,' His new bride grinned. 'I noticed that, this morning.'

'Cheeky.' Rob chuckled. 'If I'd known you were such a push-over, I'd never have married you.'

'You monster!' Giggling, his new bride punched his arm. 'Daddy warned me about men like you.'

The conversation degenerated rapidly, words being quickly replaced with actions.

A while later, they again discussed plans for the day.

'Honestly,' Rob said to Abbey. 'I really don't mind what we do. It's a fabulous day out there, and all I want to do, is spend time with you.'

'Sweet.' Abbey planted a light kiss on his cheek. 'Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy gave me something for you.'

She half turned, and reached for her bag. Rob could never understand why women needed such huge bags. Honestly, he thought, what did they keep in them? He had a wallet and that was it. It's as if they carried their entire lives around in those things.

When Abbey turned back towards him, she held something small in her hands. 'Here,' she said, placing the object in his hands. 'Daddy told me you wanted one, and he had this.'

Rob examined the camera critically, turning it in his hands. It was a Kodak Pony, not in the best of condition, but, to Rob, it looked to be in working condition.

'Wow,' He said softly. 'It's a Pony. These're supposed to be really good. Where'd he get it?'

'He said he found it - in the attic of a house he was clearing out for a friend, years ago. He's never tried it – he threw it in a box and forgot it was there until now. Actually, it was the same place he found Mabel.' She indicated a nearby chair.

Mabel was Abbey's rag-doll. It usually lived in Her bedroom but, for some reason, she had insisted on bringing it with her on honeymoon. It was, Rob thought, a tatty old thing, in dungarees that had once been different colored stripes, but were now faded almost to invisibility. Faded red hair made of wool sat atop a wide eyes face with a stitched smile.

The doll was old, and had seen a lot of repair work. Rob secretly thought it was a creepy old thing, and the thought of it watching them gave him the creeps. He usually managed to throw an item of clothing over its head. But, Abbey seemed to love it, so Rob could put up with it; for the time being at least. Maybe, with a bit luck, she'd grow out of the dammed thing.

'That was nice of him, to think of me.' Rob commented. He examined the small dial on top. 'Hey; looks like there's still some film in it.' He turned towards his wife and leered theatrically. 'What d'ya say?' He put on his best old man voice, and raised the camera. 'Wanna do some artsy photos, little girl?'

'What? And have some pervert developing them in a chemists somewhere? No thanks.' She threw him a scowl, that he thought made her look really pretty; even prettier than she normally did.

'Just a thought.' He grinned. 'So; what about this picnic?

The scowl disappeared. 'Yeah, okay,' Abbey thought for a moment. 'We'll go get some sandwiches and stuff, and some wine, and we'll find a secluded spot down by the lake, and..,' She gazed at him lovingly. 'You know.' She whispered, blushing.

'Hmm,' Rob kissed the offered lips. 'Can't wait.' He rose from the bed, and offered her his hand. 'Shall we?'

'Yes, lets.' Taking his hand, Abbey came to him. Together, they left the room.

* * * * *

Mick Andsell was pissed; metaphorically and physically. His rage, fueled by his natural disposition and the amount of alcohol he had already consumed, was spiraling out of control.

He pulled his dilapidated van untidily over to the side of the narrow road, and clambered out clumsily. Only a fortuitously placed hand upon the road prevented him from spilling out of the drivers seat, and cracking his head on the tarmac. Clamping a meaty hand against the van door, he hauled himself upright.

Blearily, he peered around, finally locating the street corner around which lay the builders yard. The yard where he had been, until recently, employed as a laborer. At this time of day, he knew; Mac Inders, the yard foreman would be in his comfy office, situated over the shops, with a nice view of the lake. Access to the yard itself was by a set of external metal steps that ran up the rear of the building.

Andsell reached into an inside pocket of his coat and retrieved a bottle. It was still two thirds full but, as this was the second of a pair, it meant little. What it did mean for Andsell, was purpose and determination. He unscrewed the cap and flung it away. Upending the bottle, he gulped, swallowing convulsively; his face screwed up as the cheap liquor scored a path down his throat, to his gullet.

Almost half the remaining contents were gone by the time he lowered the bottle, coughing.

* * * * *

They hit the shops together, laughing and giggling like a couple of teenagers. Although in his mid-twenties, and Abbey a few years younger, Rob felt like a kid again.

If this was what being in love was like, Rob thought, then he hoped that it would never end. His own parents had been together for forty years, and still acted like kids when the mood took them, which was often.

'Hang on a mo,' Rob gasped, breathing heavily.

'You're out of shape, old man.' Abbey teased, pinching his cheek. 'Maybe I should trade you in for a newer model.'

'Ha, funny lady.' Rob snorted. 'No, I just wanna try the camera.' He looked around, considering. 'Okay; just move over there a little- then I can get the lake in behind you.' Rob motioned with a hand.

Abbey smiled demurely, and glided across to the spot her husband indicated.

'How's this?' She assumed a provocative pose.

'Gorgeous.' Rob raised the camera. After a few moments fiddling with the f-stop adjustment, he judge the camera setting to be as right as he could get them.

'Ready?'

* * * * *[/center=]



[center]* * * * *

'Gorgeous.' Rob grinned. He opened his mouth to speak, but his expression took on a look of bemusement, as his new wife flashed him a momentary look of surprise, before dropping bonelessly to the ground at his feet.

Realizing that something was wrong, Rob threw himself towards Abbey, dropping to his knees before her.

Several more shots rang out, in rapid succession, but Rob did not hear them. Nor did he register the soft click, as the camera shutter activated again, fired by his nerveless fingers.

Dropping the camera, Rob gathered his wife's limp form to himself.

His eyes finally registered the small hole. It was slightly above and behind Abbey's sightless left eye. At the same time, his other hand, supporting Abbeys head, felt the larger exit hole left by the bullet.

'Abbey?' Rob refused to believe that his wife was gone. 'Sweetheart?' He held her tighter, as people began to gather, cautiously at first but, when there were no more shots, bolder; gossiping agitatedly amongst themselves, as they waited for the emergency services and tried to comfort the young man holding his dead wife.

In all the confusion, nobody noticed the youngish woman with copper hair. Nobody seemed to see her as, unnoticed, she scooped up the camera and stowed it in a pocket of her coat. Then, unseen, she faded back into the background.

'Mummy, look.'

Amber Jensen sighed, and turned back. Juliette had stopped in front of another shop window, and was beckoning excitedly.

'Sweetie, we're never going to make it to the park, if you stop at every shop on the way.' She told her daughter.

Seven year old Juliette leaned over the handlebars of her new pink tricycle, and pouted theatrically. 'But,' She gestured at somethng behind the glass. 'This is way cool. Come see. Pleeeease.' The last elongated syllable was uttered pleadingly, and Amber smiled, despite herself.

At first, she couldn't see what her daughter was pointing at, amongst the assorted jumble of bric-a-brac on display. Then she saw it, tucked away in the shadows; a rag-doll. It was large and tatty, with unruly muted red woolen hair, and sun-faded, multi-hued, striped dungarees. A stitched grin and wide eyes regarded them vacuously through the glass.

'Isn't she the coolest?' Juliette enthused. 'Can I have her, mummy, please? Pretty please?'

Amber frowned. 'I don't know sweetie.' She examined the doll with a critical eye. 'It's a scruffy looking thing. I'm sure we could find you a better dolly than that.'

'But,' Juliette's round face began to crumble in upon itself. 'I want her.'

Her mother recognized the signs, and tried to steel herself against them. As usual, she was totally unprepared to withstand the prolonged onslaughts her daughter was capable of delivering. While she collected herself, she examined the doll once more. It really was a scruffy thing, she thought. There was no telling how old it was, but it looked as if it had seen both tough times, and children.

One of the dolls feet had split along the seam, the cotton stuffing protruding. There was a similar split just below the woolly hairline, and the visible cotton looked soiled. It looked to amber as if the dolls brains were leaking from its head. She pushed the unsettling thought aside, and noticed that somebody had placed an old camera in the dolls lap, between its cloth hands.

'Cute touch,' She thought; actually, it only added to the overall creepiness of the rag-doll.

'Well, there's no price on it.' She said. 'Maybe they want too much for her.' She moved away from the window. 'And you're going to be late for your party, if we don't hurry.'

'I want the dolly!'

Amber cringed. Heads were turning, along the street. People were looking. A shy, introverted person, attention was the last thing Amber wanted. Quickly, she grabbed for the handlebars of the tricycle, and led the way into the darkened recesses of the shop.

Inside, the shop was cool; a welcoming change from the summer heat outside. Amber stood, giving her eyes a moment to adjust, and enjoying the mild chill.

'Good Morning.' A woman glided into view. Amber registered pale green eyes, set in a fine featured face framed by a mass of coppery hair. 'May I help you?'

'Um; yes. I suppose.' Amber shrugged apologetically; the gesture an integral part of her persona. 'We – that is, my daughter, is interested in the rag-doll you have in the window.' She smiled deprecatingly. 'She has some money burning a hole in her pocket.'

'I see.' She regarded Amber steadily. Amber held her gaze for a second, then dropped her eyes. The woman's eyes reminded her of nothing less than the palest jade, and had a disconcertingly ageless quality to them. She sensed, more than saw, the womans slow smile.

'Well, let's have a look shall we?' She moved to the window, and parted the concealing curtains. She leaned in. 'Ah; here we are.' Her voice sounded muffled, by the curtains. She straightened, and Juliette squealed in delight as she saw the doll.

'Here you go, sweetheart.' She knelt before the girl, and passed the doll over. 'And, as today is such a special day, this doll is on offer.' She glanced up at Amber and smiled, before turning her attention back to her daughter. 'You can have her for, oh..,' She pretended to think for a moment. 'A shilling should be about right.'

'Can I? Really?' The woman nodded, smiling. Juliette turned to her mother. 'Can I really have her?'

Amber looked from her daughter to the woman, then back again. 'Well..,' She looked at the woman again, and saw the slight nod. 'I suppose so.'

Juliette squealed her joy, and hugged the doll to herself. Amber dug into her handbag for her purse. Pulling out a coin, she passed it across to the woman. She took the coin, and examined it for a second. Then, to Amber's great surprise, the woman held out the old camera to her.

'I'm sorry.' She held up a hand in protest. 'We don't want the camera; just the doll.'

'You misunderstand.' The woman said. 'The doll and the camera came to me as a pair, and are for sale as such. There's no extra to pay.'

'But..,' Amber began to protest, then stopped. Helplessly, she took the camera. 'Thank you.' She said simply.

'I'm sure it will come in useful.' The woman told her. 'I think there is still a little left on the film. You can get some pictures of the birthday festivities.'

'I suppose.' Amber smiled gratefully. 'I forgot to bring a camera with me. Thank you again.'

'You are welcome; think naught of it.' The woman led the pair towards the door of the shop.

Outside in the sunshine, Amber turned to thank the woman again. But the door had closed softly behind them. It was fully half an hour later, as they were just passing the park gates, that it occurred to her that she hadn't told the woman that it was Juliette's birthday.





The unbridled joy of massed children pervaded and saturated the immediate area. Amber sat on one of the seats that bordered the perimeter of the enclosed play area, and chatted with her best friend, Amy Whintring. They had been friends since they had shared adjoining beds in the maternity ward. Her daughter Melissa was ten minutes older than Juliette. It had been, Amber thought, a brilliant idea to combine both birthdays and resources, and hire the secure play area for the afternoon, along with a clown to entertain the kids.

She glanced towards the sandpit, to where Flippy the clown was fighting a valiant but, ultimately, useless battle against the various items of play equipment scattered around the enclosure. His antics and balloon animals were no match for the slides, swing-sets and roundabouts.

'Rather him than me.' Amber thought, with a smile. Twenty-plus kids, between the ages of six and eight – the majority of them girls? No way could she be persuaded to entertain them for three hours, at the rate she and Amy were paying. There were definitely better ways to earn a living.

She spotted Juliette; she was sitting on the roundabout with Melissa and a couple of other girls, the names of whom escaped her. She was still clutching that tatty rag-doll close to her. Amber wondered absently about the possibility of getting the doll away from her; at least long enough for her to darn the seams, and throw it in the wash. She realized that Amy was saying something.

'Sorry,' she apologized. 'What did you say?'

'I said, where's this shop, you said you got the doll?'

'Oh.' Amber smiled at her friend. She leant forwards and moved Juliette's trike towards herself; away from the careless feet of the children running past. 'It's on Whitegate drive, a couple of doors down from the butchers. You must have passed it dozens of times.'

'If I did, I never noticed the place.' Amy replied. 'Maybe it hasn't been there long.'

'Well, it looked like it had been there for years, the amount of stuff there was inside. Not to mention the stuff in the window.' Amber paused for a moment, then went on slowly. 'Funny though; I don't ever remember seeing the place before either.'

'Well, I don't suppose it matters.' Amy remarked. She nodded towards the roundabout. 'Juliette looks like she's made a new friend for life. You know, I had one of those, when I was little.' She added wistfully. 'I called her Jenny; we went everywhere together.'

'Cute.' Amber smiled. She suddenly remembered the camera. 'Oh; and I got this as well.' She rummaged through her handbag and withdrew the camera. 'It's a Kodak. A bit old, but the woman said that there were still some shots left on the film.'

'Nice.' Amy commented. 'You know how to use it?'

'It can't be that hard surely.' Amber turned the camera in her hands, familiarizing herself with the dials and buttons. 'Maybe we can get a nice shot of the girls.' She stood up. 'Where have they gone?' The roundabout was empty.

'Over there.' Amy pointed. 'Flippy's finally got an audience.'

Juliette, Melissa and another girl were clustered around the clown, watching enthralled as he stretched and contorted several balloons into what might have been a dog. Or maybe a swan, Amber thought; Flippy wasn't really that good.

She angled along the perimeter, following the line of the fence, camera ready, searching for the best position from which to shoot. It was frustratingly difficult; every time she thought she had the perfect shot, a small gaggle of children would insert themselves between camera and subjects.

'Sounds like someone's in trouble.' She looked back to where Amy was now standing. Amber was puzzled by her friend's words for a moment; then she heard it – a rapidly rising wail of emergency sirens. Ambulance or police, she thought; it was difficult to tell. She dismissed the sound, and concentrated once more on trying to get the right shot.

There; it was perfect. The girls were staring happily up at the clown, who was holding his balloon creation towards them.

Click.

Perfect. Amber smiled in satisfaction, and aimed the camera for a second shot.

Then lowered it, as the sound of approaching sirens became too loud to ignore.

She turned towards the sound, and found herself looking into Amy's eyes. She could see clearly, her own growing confusion mirrored in their depths. Then awareness dawned, and Amy began to turn towards the source of the noise, as it swelled behind her.

The massive bronze prow of a car crashed through the fence at the point where Amy stood. The woman disappeared under the wheels, any sound of terror that she might have made drowned in the cacophony of tortured metal.

The supporting posts to either side of the car were wrenched from the ground, buckling inwards. Yards of heavy metal mesh were dragged into the playground, as the car lurched to a halt yards from where Amber had been standing.

Amber herself, her hearing overloaded by the shriek of metal and the wailing threnody of sirens, impacted with one of the metal supports, as she rushed forwards to try and save her friend. The force of the impact threw her at an angle, in towards the play area, and the screaming children.

Click.

She didn't realize that her numbed finger had pressed the shutter release on the Kodak, the instant before it left her nerveless hand.

'Amy!'

She screamed her friends name; again and again – as if, by that act, she could somehow reverse what had just happened. Sirens still blared their adrenaline call, as officers from three cars swarmed the wrecked Cortina.

Two of them dragged the semi-conscious driver from the wreck, still inebriated and uncaring of where he was. The others rushed to the front of the car, scrambling over the wreckage of the fence – desperate to reach the woman trapped under the car.

Amber stared numbly at the devastation. A portion of her mind noted, vaguely, Amber's hand; the only part of her that was visible. The front passenger tire of the Cortina rested upon the wrist, obscuring the view of her friend, but Amber thought she saw the fingers twitch once, spasmodically, before falling still.

'Mummy?'

Amber registered the small voice finally. She turned her head slowly towards the sound. Juliette was standing beside her, Melissa at her side. The rag-doll grinned vacantly at her from under her daughter's arm.

The sight of her daughter standing safely in front of her, broke Amber's thrall. Wordlessly, she threw her arms around the two children, pulling them to her tightly, as if never wanting to let go.

'Mummy,' Juliette asked, a little breathlessly. 'Where's aunty Amy gone?'

* * * * *

The old woman's eyes dimmed, and went dark.

Andy seemed to realize then, what he'd done. He bottom-shuffled away from the still figure his features a mask of sick shock, then scrambled to his feet. He bolted; following his friends through the narrow ginnel. All was silent in the car park; a silence broken only by the solitary croaking of a lone rook somewhere in the tree.

A shape detached itself from the tree, where it had remained hidden throughout the recent events. One arm was wrapped tightly around a large rag-doll. The doll was large - almost as tall as the child, with unruly red woolen hair, and bright, multi-hued striped, dungarees. Its wide, stitched smiled seemed to be directed towards the old woman's body.

The small child looked curiously at the still form at her feet, pale jade eyes expressionless. The girls face was still – impassive. She studied the still form for a moment, then looked up, as the rook cawed once more, raucously. She tilted her head to one side, as if listening, then smiled. The smile transformed her cherubic features, framed inside her coppery hair.

Turning, she moved away from her grandmother. Stopping, she stooped, stubby fingers reaching towards the rough tarmac. She straightened, the Kodak Pony clutched in the hand not holding the rag-doll. Then, without a backward glance, she made her way out of the car-park; away from the town.

* * * * *

She entered her apartment; her arms loaded with shopping. Dropping the bags onto the small dining table, she headed towards the kettle.

Five minutes later, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her, she rummaged through her purse, until she located what she was looking for. Withdrawing a thin cardboard wallet, she flipped open the flap and pulled out the contents.

Flipping quickly through the photographs, placing each one face up in a pile next to her mug, she sighed. At first glance, it appeared that none of the shots had survived. Each photograph showed the same overexposed face to the world. She reached for her cup, and sipped at the hot chocolate. Her eyes dropped, taking in the disorderly pile.

She paused. Something in the discarded pile of overexposed images had caught her eye. Sorting through the heap with a finger, she saw the blurred edge of.., what, exactly? She moved the topmost picture to one side.

The photograph showed a young woman. She was pretty, with a blond pageboy cut of hair. Standing next to a shop, with a lake and mountains behind her, off to one side. Even after all this time, the image was clear; the colors sharp and well defined.

She smiled at the image; there was a timelessness to the girls smile, that cut across the years and mirrored her own. She wondered who she was.

Still smiling, she picked up the photograph, and saw there there was another image beneath.

This photograph was black and white; a monochromatic instant of time.

A young woman. She was pretty, with a blond pageboy cut of hair. The camera had been on its side when the picture had been snapped, and it seemed for a moment that she had posed for the shot with her face pressed against a flat smooth stone surface. It was only when you noticed the pale, sightless eyes, and the small hole just behind her forehead, that you realized that the girl was lying dead on a pavement. She dragged her eyes away from the image with a sick feeling in her stomach, and pushed it away.

There was another picture beneath.

Like the first, this image was sharp; alive with life and color. Three children, standing enthralled in a play area. They had been captured in the act of giggling, as a brightly dressed clown held a balloon animal towards them. It was a happy image, capturing the joy and innocence of youth. Slowly, she pushed it to one side.

A stark, monochrome image. It looked like the same play area. To one side, the front of a car had collided with and demolished the fence. Several children, open mouthed and wide eyed, stood frozen in attitudes of terror, staring at the car. A small child's tricycle lay next to the front bumper, it's wheels towards the sky.

Not too bad, she thought; it might have been worse. Until she noticed, under the front tire of the car, a hand, trapped at the wrist. What she thought of at first as a pool of oil from the engine casing suddenly took on the aspect of blood, pooling around the hand.

She was afraid to lift the photograph. But some perverse sense moved her hand, the fingers dragging the image to the side.

There was no color image this time. But the scene captured was, in so many ways, the worst of all.

A young man; burly, his features twisted and distorted by a rage that was primal in its ferocity. With his left hand, the thick fingers twisted ferociously in her thin hair, he held aloft the battered head of an old woman. Below the neck, the thin body also showed signs of a severe beating. She was either either dead, or close to it.

The young man grinned into the lens, lips stretched wide in a feral grin that evidenced his insanity. His eyes glinted, and it took little effort on her part to imagine them as red, and mad.

Her hands were shaking now, and the image moved to one side almost of its own accord, as she placed a finger at it edge. The picture below, the last in the pile, was a confused blur of images.

First impressions were of a tree. Solitary; dark, gloomy, and out of focus – it stood alone against a murky gray backdrop. She almost set it off to one side, but something caught her eye, and she lifted the photograph into the light, tilting it sideways in an effort to see clearly.

There was something; a shape - barely defined. It resolved itself slowly into that of a child. A little girl; maybe seven or eight years old, with cherubic features and a mass of hair. Somehow, she knew the hair would be coppery.

Clutched tightly to her was a large rag-doll. It was almost as large as the child; the feet dangling inches from the ground. Hair of wool; that she just knew, was a bright red. Dungarees that were striped, and multi-hued. Wide eyes and a stitched on smile regarded her with a gaze that seemed almost malign.

Involuntarily, her gaze left the picture and fixed upon an object that sat on her bed; something her father had bought for her, just before the illness claimed him.

Faded red hair of wool, and a stitched on smile watched her from its place at the head of her bed. The rag-doll regarded her with wide eyes.